MICK
CHAPTER TWO
My ribs ache, my lungs burn, and I'm pretty sure I've left a piece of my soul on the ice tonight.
Winning isn't always pretty, especially when the other team wants to grind you into the ice and the refs decide they’re blind for the final ten minutes of the third period.
We took the points, but I'm going to be feeling every second of that win when I try to get out of bed tomorrow morning.
I step out of the locker room, the smell of liniment and stale ice clinging to my skin like a second jersey.
The hallway is dim, cooled by the proximity of the rink, and usually, it's my favorite part of the night.
I'm ready to head home, collapse into my king-size bed and sleep off the pain. Then I see her.
Mia Wells is standing near the tunnel, leaning against the cold concrete wall like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
She's laughing with Harper Thorne, waiting for Jaxson to finish whatever post-game voodoo he performs after every game.
The sound of that laugh hits me harder than any of the body checks I took tonight.
It's warm, bright, and completely unbothered by the chaos of the busy arena.
She looks incredible. A mane of dark, curly hair spills over the shoulders of a practical jacket, but there’s nothing practical about the way she moves. Her dark and perceptive eyes crinkle at the corners as she says something that makes Harper nearly double over.
I stop for a beat, the air leaving my chest in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
My hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to touch her luscious curves.
I want to be the reason she's smiling like that.
I want to walk up, put my arm around her, and feel that curly hair against my chin while we talk about nothing at all.
Instead, I tighten my grip on my gear bag and grit my teeth.
Mia made it very clear where we stand when she gave me that gentle, agonizing rejection months ago.
She doesn't want an athlete, and she doesn't want the mess that comes with us. She’s seen enough of the lifestyle through Harper and Rory to know she wants no part of the circus.
She's in the 'Neutral Zone.' Safely tucked away behind a line I promised not to cross. Respecting boundaries is a bitch when every instinct I have is screaming at me to claim her, to prove that I’m more than just a guy looking for a roll in the hay. But she told me in no uncertain terms that she isn’t interested in me. Fuck. That hurts.
Every instinct in me wants to override her resistance and make her mine. But my mind knows that’s the wrong way to go.
I force my feet to move, keeping my eyes forward. I give a short nod to Harper as I pass, making sure my expression is a mask of composure. If I look at Mia for more than a second, she’ll see everything I’m trying to hide. I can’t let her see how much this mask of indifference is costing me.
"Great game, Mick," Harper calls out, her voice echoing in the concrete corridor.
"Thanks, Harper," I say, my voice raspy from shouting over the crowd. "Your husband did a pretty good job, too."
I feel Mia's eyes on me then. It’s a physical weight, a heat that settles between my shoulder blades. I can feel her eyes moving over me like a physical touch.
“You’re looking a little gimpy there, Micky Boy.” That fucking nickname makes me want to both kiss her pouty lips and spank her gorgeous ass.
"I'm fine," spitting out this lie is getting harder and harder each time I do it. "Just another night at the office."
"Ducking pucks and sticks seems like a painful way to make money," she counters, stepping away from the wall. She doesn't come closer, but the shift in her posture is enough to make my heart skip a beat.
"It pays the bills," I flash the mischievous grin that usually gets me out of trouble with the media. "And keeps me on my toes."
Mia rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. It’s a victory, a small one, but I’ll take it. I’ve spent months collecting these tiny moments with her.
Jaxson steps out of the locker room behind me, looking like he just finished a meditation retreat instead of sixty minutes of high-velocity projectiles.
He’s stoic, disciplined, and currently looking at Harper like she’s the only person in the world.
It’s a look I recognize because it’s the same one I’m trying so hard to hide from Mia.
"Ready?" Jaxson asks, his voice sparse and precise. He nods to me, a silent acknowledgment of the win, before sliding his arm around Harper’s waist.
"Ready," Harper says, leaning into him. She looks at me, then at Mia, her hazel eyes dancing with an awareness that makes me want to bolt. "You coming, Mi-Mi? We're grabbing a quick bite at The Roaring Crowd before it gets too packed."
Mia looks at me for a long second. The air in the hallway feels heavy, charged with all the things I can't say and the one thing she already told me. I want to tell her to come. I want to tell her I’ll buy her whatever she wants and listen to her talk about the ER until the sun comes up.
I want to break every rule of the 'Neutral Zone' and drag her into my world.
"I can't," Mia says, her voice softening. "I've got an early shift tomorrow."
“We won’t be too late.” Harper tells her friend. While they discuss their plans, I take the opportunity to get the fuck out of there. Before I do something really fucking stupid. Like beg Mia to give me a chance.
I tighten my hand on my bag and step around them. "See you guys later," I say. “I have a date with my sofa and a bag of ice.”
“Enjoy your wild time.” Mia smiles, a real one this time, and it’s like someone turned on the stadium lights.
It’s a dangerous thing, that smile. It makes me nearly forget my own name much less every promise I’ve ever made to keep my distance.
It’s a reminder of the night we met, before her “I just want to be friends” wall came up between us, when everything felt possible.
I smile at her and walk away. As I round the corner, memories rush through my exhausted mind.
I remember the first moment I met her in that crowded bar, the way she looked at me like she could see right through the 'Captain' persona to the man underneath. We’d talked for three hours about everything and nothing. I’d been ready to fall, headfirst and screaming, until she’d put a hand on my chest and told me she wasn't looking for a relationship.
Especially not with a man whose life was dictated by a schedule and a scoreboard.
I'd hated it but I respected it. I'd been a gentleman and walked away. But standing here now, with the adrenaline still fading and my body screaming in protest, the act is starting to feel fucking impossible. It’s restrictive, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s starting to tear at the seams.
The night air is crisp, smelling of rain and the Puget Sound.
I toss my bag into the back seat of my truck, the physical effort sending a fresh wave of pain down my spine.
I lean against the cool metal of the door, looking back at the arena.
I can still feel the ghost of her gaze on my back, a lingering heat that refuses to fade.
The drive home is a blur of neon lights and the steady rhythmic thump of my tires against the pavement.
I pull into my driveway, the headlights catching the sleek lines of the house I bought because it looked like a place a successful professional should live.
Now, it just looks like a museum dedicated to a man who spends all his time at a rink.
I kill the engine but don't get out right away.
Instead, I just sit there in the dark, my hands still gripped tight around the steering wheel, my knuckles white in the dim glow of the dashboard.
Fuck. Every time I see her, these feeling get harder and harder to fight.